But the final nail was the fact that people with missing spouses or children clutched on to the belief that their loved ones were still alive with every ounce of strength they could squeeze out of their bodies, especially after only a week. Sometimes even seeing a loved one’s remains didn’t help. They simply couldn’t let go. But someone who had killed his spouse would never know to cling on to that hope, no matter how false it might be. Which meant Mrs. Yost was most likely dead. But I wasn’t about to tip him off to the fact I knew he was as guilty as sin on Sunday, just in case I was wrong. If she were alive, I’d need time to find her before he finished the job.

“I understand,” I said. “But I want you to hold on to the belief that she’s okay, Dr. Yost.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with fabricated grief. “So, you’ll take the case?” he asked, his face brightening. After all, a grieving husband doing anything possible to find his missing wife would look less suspicious.

“Well, I have to be honest, Dr. Yost, with the FBI already on it, I’m not sure what more I can do.”

“But, you can do something, right? I can write you a check right now if it’s about the money.” He pulled out a checkbook from the portfolio and patted his shirt pocket for a pen.

“No, it’s not about the money,” I said, shaking my head. “I just don’t want to take yours if there’s nothing I can do.”

He nodded in understanding.

“Let me look into this for a couple of days. If I think I can be of any help to your wife, I’ll give you a call.”

“All right,” he said, a spark of hope resurfacing. “So, you’ll call me?”

“Absolutely.”

I led him to the door and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can for her.”

A sad smile slid across his face. “I’ll pay anything.”

I saw the good doctor out, waited a hot second, then turned to Cookie with a roll of my eyes. “That man is as guilty as my accountant.”

Cookie gasped. “He’s guilty? He doesn’t look guilty.”

“Neither does my accountant,” I said, sifting through the papers on her desk.

She reached across and slapped my hand. “What’s your accountant guilty of?”

I sucked on the back of my hand before answering. “Fudging numbers.”

“Your accountant fudges numbers?”

“Why else would I pay someone to do my taxes? Anywho”—I hitched a thumb over my shoulder—“guilty. And we have another missing wife. They must be in season.”

We’d just solved a missing wife case a couple of weeks ago. In the process, I was kidnapped, tortured, shot at, and I came pretty darned close to getting Garrett, Cookie, and our client killed. Not a bad week, if I did say so myself.

“So, he’s guilty. Does that mean his wife is dead?”

I knew the statistics, and there was about a 95 percent chance of a resounding yes, but I refused to work under that assumption. “That part’s a little fuzzy, but this guy is good. He only let his verb tense slip twice, letting me know he believes she’s already dead. And he never once said her name.”

“That’s not good,” Cookie said, her face lined with worry.

“If I hadn’t felt the guilt radiating out of every pore in his body, I would’ve been completely fooled.”

“I was fooled.”

With an appreciative grin, I said, “You’re always fooled. You always think the best of people. That’s why we get along so well. You can’t see past my charm and stunning beauty to the real me.”

“Oh, no, I see the real you. I just feel sorry for the mentally challenged. I think you guys deserve just as much of a chance at a normal life as the next guy.”

“That’s so sweet,” I said like a cheerleader on meth.

She shrugged. “I try to be a positive influence on the less fortunate.”

Then a thought occurred to me. “Crap.”

“What?”

“I just realized something.”

“Did you forget to put on underwear again?”

I glanced at her point-blank. “Since the good doctor is guilty, he’ll probably try to kill me soon. You might want to take precautions.”

“Got it. Where should we start?”

“A Kevlar vest, maybe. Pepper spray at the very least.”

“I meant on the case.” Cookie looked past me into my office. “Oh, hi, Mr. Davidson.”

I turned as Dad walked in. He’d come up from the bar by way of the inside stairs, which was fine, since he owned it and all. His tall, thin frame seemed to sag just a bit. His blond hair looked barely combed, and his bloodshot eyes were lined with a purplish hue. And not a pretty purple either. It was that dark grayish purple that depressed people wear.

Things hadn’t quite been the same between us since he tried to have me murdered a while back. One of his collars from his former life as a detective had been released from prison and decided to get even with Dad by going after his family. So, by deftly placing a target on my back to save my sister and stepmother from the guy’s dastardly plan, he’d almost gotten me killed. That part wasn’t the problem. The problem lay in the fact that, believing they would catch the guy before any harm could be done, he neglected to tell me that he’d sent a killer my way. Thus leaving me vulnerable. He’d put Garrett Swopes on my tail, which would normally have been enough protection for the president making an anti-gun speech at the NRA, but the new guy Garrett had assigned to me decided to go for coffee right when the parolee decided to go on a killing spree. And I had a nasty scar across my chest to prove it. Or I would have had I not healed so fast. A grim reaper thing, apparently.

Those kinds of family indiscretions were hard to get past. Nevertheless, I was willing to let bygones be bygones, but the guilt that wafted off him like bargain-brand cologne acted as a constant reminder and seemed to keep him just out of arm’s reach. He seemed unable to forgive himself. And that guilt was taking its toll, as guilt is wont to do.

So I couldn’t tell if the powerful emotion pouring out of him now was a by-product of that incident or if this was something new and improved with no preservatives, fillers, or artificial colors. He was definitely frowning. Maybe he had heartburn. More likely, he’d heard the pepper spray comment.